A Great Man
by letskillhitler
Summary: Elizabeth has always been hidden in the shadow of her near-famous brother. She's always been the little sister no one knew about. The flatmate no one knew was there. Except Ms. Hudson, of course. Now's her chance! The BAU could be her big break! But will it be? Or will the ass of a brother she admires so much steal this opportunity from her as well?
1. Words are stupid

Words are stupid.

But I love them. I'm a blogger, of sorts. I'm related to fame, and almost famous myself. Except nobody will admit they know who I am. Only a select few will recognize that they've visited my page once, twice, some even weekly. Everyone, though, can lament some way about my relations.

My brother's kind of a big deal back home. People where I am now have usually heard of him, too. He's a great man. It is to be hoped that someday he can be a good one too. It's not that he's a bad person, he just _doesn't care. _Never though, ever, will I admit I'm related to him.

It's a hard thing, to live in the shadow of a great human being. A tree can never grow in the shadow of one before it. Or, rather, one next to it. I'm not a tree, obviously. Trees cannot type. Trees cannot speak. Trees cannot loathe. I can.

My name is Elizabeth Holmes, and I've finally escaped.

I've escaped from London, from my family, the unfeeling, near abhorring and constant analysis from my brothers. By escaped, I mean we don't share a bedroom anymore. Now we're just flatmates. We're all one and the same, really. All of us, separately, could tell you whether or not your husband was having an affair by the scent of your shampoo if you asked. The answer, by the way, is yes.

Recently, one of us has gotten into a spot of trouble. Death was faked, moreover happened for real a little bit. That's why we're here. Even though we might act like we hate each other, we would be lost if we weren't together.

This is my side of a famous story. This is my life. The life of Elizabeth Holmes, sister of one of the greatest minds in history.

Hello.

* * *

Six months had passed since her brother's "death," though only she and three other people could have said it so. She missed the old days, though she wouldn't admit it. She missed being flatmates with her brother and his John.

John Watson was a strange man. Almost as strange as her brother. She remembered seeing them stare at each other, knowing what the other was thinking. John was always the first to look away, but it was easy to tell that he would be the last to stop thinking about it. He was loyal, even in his mind. Now, she could be sure that he would always be loyal. Because where else could he go? This was America. This wasn't London. This wasn't where he was used to. But he _was _used to one thing: Sherlock.

"Ah, Ms. Holmes," an older man smiled.

"Elizabeth is fine, thanks," she followed him into a room with a large round table in it.

Around the table there were six people, including the obvious eldest, the one she'd just met. There was the leader, an unsmiling man with crayon on his right sleeve. The way he held his hands suggested that he was left handed, meaning he had a child, probably around the age of six, maybe seven. His posture said, "Don't come near me," but he was lonely. Missing someone. His wife, probably. Three years, no more and no less.

There was a younger man, likely the youngest beside herself, who seemed rather interesting. He was a genius, no doubt. Graduated young, but never stopped dealing with a teacher. He seemed subconsciously guilty about something. Something family related. Something to do with his mother. The way he stands with his arms folded shows he needs to prove himself. Something about himself specifically. It's obvious that he's smart, that can't be it. But, you know what most clever people are? Crazy!

A smiling blonde woman, in a new position. She is happier now. Moving up in the world. Her fingernail were clean and painted, but bitten. Stressful job, but, by the looks of the skin around her lips it always has been. Elizabeth was nearly finished with her analysis of the one and only Jennifer Jareau when she heard her phone ring.

It was a special ringtone, three octaves higher than her usual one. Of course, she would receive a call from her family on a big day.

"Hello," she sighed, looking to the group apologetically. They assured her it was alright and she continued. She, of course, knew that they just wanted to study her.

_"Where are you?"_

"I told John that there was food left in the microwave for you when you got back. Also, I've figured out the microwave. And broken it," she said animatedly.

_"Why do I let you touch the appliances?"_

"Because everyone else gets your order wrong dear brother," she smirked.

_"Anyways, I was worried, you weren't at home."_

"No, no, no. Don't do that," she shook her head, even though she knew he couldn't see it.

_"Do what?"_

"The concerned thing. You know it bothers me," she looked at the group and the strange stares they were giving her. "It doesn't suit you."

_"I'm not doing a thing, I was just perturbed at your absence."_

"Stay home. Sleep. Eat something for God's sake just, no."

She could hear his smile through the phone. _"Can I talk to Mr. Hotchner?"_

"Can't you call him yourself?"

_"But then where would I get my recommendation?"_

"Fine," she sighed and handed the phone to her new boss.

_"Hello," _her brother chimed. _"This is Sherlock Holmes, I'd like to join your team."_


	2. How do planes work?

Sometimes, before John moved in, Sherlock didn't come home for days on end. I would stare at the wall and watch beams of light move along it, but it never stopped there. A cab never stopped at Baker Street while I was paying attention. He waited until the early, early hours of the morning when I was too busy not sleeping to hear a car pull up or even the door shut. It was like he had nothing to come home to.

And then came John Watson. The broken soldier. And oh was he brilliant! Sherlock had something to come home to, someone he could take care of; someone he'd let take care of him.

Now, my meeting with the doctor not go as well as I had hoped. Sherlock had called and said he would be bringing a man back to the flat. Now, if it were anyone else I would have been sure to pay more attention to that statement. It would have meant something different for anyone else. For us, it was just a warning that I should probably keep dressed and maybe remove a few body parts from the sink. I did both.

* * *

_I'm bringing a man by the flat today. -SH_

**Why should that matter to me? -EH**

_Keep your clothes on. And take the hand out of the sink. -SH_

**I see. -EH**

_See what? -SH_

**Don't want your little sister ruining your date, huh? -EH**

_Don't be absurd. -SH_

**It's all I do. Anyways, I'll be sure to dispose of most of the limbs around our flat. The eyes stay. -EH**

_Why? -SH_

**I'm not done with them. -EH**

She put away her phone and ignored it when it went off again. She was busy. She had experiments to do. On the kitchen table in front of her, there was an array of strange things. To her left was an assortment of fingers for which she was using to measure cuticle decay after death. To her right, a few needles and a display of eyes. Normal.

Her brother barged in, a strange thing for the middle of the day and kind of irritating but tried to hide a small smile. Next to him was the man she assumed would be their flatmate and not, in fact, his date.

"You're early, I haven't had time to-" she began. "Just stay away from the sink."

"Oh," John smiled. "Who's this?"

"I live here," she informed him. "My name's Elizabeth."

"Where's your room?" he smiled still, though she had no idea what he could possibly be so happy about.

"Sherlock and I share a room," she said, with the same blank expression her brother often gave.

"Oh, well, I didn't-" he started.

"What? Why are you getting flustered?" Elizabeth questioned.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "This is my sister, John."

The look on his face could have killed her.

"You thought-" she started laughing. "No, oh god no."

Sherlock, too started laughing and then it was all three of them. Ms. Hudson came in not too long after and offered them tea, which she gladly accepted. Sherlock's phone rang and her head poked up in interest. She followed him out the door whilst pulling on a coat similar to his.

"You coming, doctor?" she called as she shuffled down the stairs.

* * *

Honestly, I do kind of like working on cases with my brother. It lets you see a little bit that he does care. Even if that's against our diagnosis. Did I mention that I'm crazy, too?

Either way, Sherlock Holmes isn't completely heartless. I think he only acts like he is so no one will get hurt. Because he does care. He does. He cares about John and he cares about Molly and believe it or not, he cares about Mycroft and I. He's a little bit good.

* * *

She didn't know how she felt about planes. Planes were planes. Large metal flying vehicles that she knew little about. She knew about pilots, and stewardesses, but she didn't know who invented the plane. She didn't know how high they flew. And she didn't want to. Because believe it or not, she could feel fear. And somehow, she was afraid to be afraid.

But you know what did help? The fact that it was near silent on the plane. No one spoke. They must have been waiting for her, or something. She smiled at sat next to the blonde. She seemed nice_._ It was strange. Never had she sat with someone because they_ seemed nice. _It just wasn't her style. Normally, she would have sat by the young genius, who himself seemed deep in thought, just as the blonde was.

"What are you thinking about?" Elizabeth asked gently.

"A friend," Jennifer smiled sadly.

"Do you miss her?" Elizabeth spoke softly, quietly.

Jennifer nodded, looking as if she were about to cry. People were easy to understand. Their emotions still remained a mystery to the siblings Holmes. It was obvious this was a hard subject for her, but what Elizabeth didn't know was why, and she would try her best to find out soon. To lighten the mood, she changed the subject.

"What's your son's name?" she inquired.

"Henry, Henry LaMontagne," Jennifer smiled.

Elizabeth noted how much talking about her child pleased her, and tried to remember that. He had to be about four years old, learning to write judging by the marker on her pant leg.

* * *

Friends are a funny thing. I never had any growing up, besides my brothers. They weren't really my friends, but Mycroft stood up for me and Sherlock would embarrass anyone who picked on me. I did the same for them, too. It was like an unspoken agreement of ours. No one gets left behind. No one gets hurt.

As we grew up, Sherlock forgot about all that. What he knew then was okay, too, and I knew it as well as he did. He knew drugs and science, which were fun things. It was me, actually, who made him get clean. I think he just got tired of my 'nagging' as he would call it. I even got him to quit smoking. Really though it was like a competition. Who could quit first. We had the same idea, which was the patches. They weren't as good, didn't help us think as much, but they were alright. We would sit there, each of us with three or four patches on our arms shooting ideas and dismissals back and forth.

That was good, I think. That was fun. We never had to experience the hardship of guilt when we rarely fought. We never had to 'make up' for anything. It was understood that feelings were useless. And then came John.

* * *

_I'm bored. -SH_

That was the text she received just after she got off the plane. He was bored. That was never good. Never. So she called him, mostly to bug him because he wasn't fond of phone calls.

"Don't do anything ridiculous," was her opening line. And oh, the looks she got. "Do not do anything illegal while I'm gone. Do normal people things."

_"Like what?"_

"Jennifer, what do you do when you're bored?"

The blonde thought for a moment before responding, "Watch television, call a friend, maybe go into town?"

"See," Elizabeth offered. "Watch telly, go find a place that will let you be weird. Don't call anyone though. Just don't."

_"I'm capable of using a phone."_

"You're also capable of getting arrested. Go to sleep or something. Eat," she ordered.

_"All we have is something called Ramen Noodles. How do I make them?"_

"I don't know! Eat them straight out of the package. No, don't. That could be dangerous," she put her hand over the phone's microphone and spoke to the rest of the group. "Yeah, sorry this shouldn't be much longer but do any of you know how to make Ramen Noodles?"


End file.
